Baree, Son of Kazan eBook

The wings made a great tumult about Baree, but they
did not hurt him. He buried his fangs deeper.
His snarls rose more fiercely as he got the taste
of Oohoomisew’s blood, and through him there
surged more hotly the desire to kill this monster
of the night, as though in the death of this creature
he had the opportunity of avenging himself for all
the hurts and hardships that had befallen him since
he had lost his mother.

Oohoomisew had never felt a great fear until now.
The lynx had snapped at him but once—­and
was gone, leaving him crippled. But the lynx had
not snarled in that wolfish way, and it had not hung
on. A thousand and one nights Oohoomisew had
listened to the wolf howl. Instinct had told
him what it meant. He had seen the packs pass
swiftly through the night, and always when they passed
he had kept in the deepest shadows. To him, as
for all other wild things, the wolf howl stood for
death. But until now, with Baree’s fangs
buried in his leg, he had never sensed fully the wolf
fear. It had taken it years to enter into his
slow, stupid head—­but now that it was there,
it possessed him as no other thing had ever possessed
him in all his life.

Suddenly Oohoomisew ceased his beating and launched
himself upward. Like huge fans his powerful wings
churned the air, and Baree felt himself lifted suddenly
from the earth. Still he held on—­and
in a moment both bird and beast fell back with a thud.

Oohoomisew tried again. This time he was more
successful, and he rose fully six feet into the air
with Baree. They fell again. A third time
the old outlaw fought to wing himself free of Baree’s
grip; and then, exhausted, he lay with his giant wings
outspread, hissing and cracking his bill.

Under those wings Baree’s mind worked with the
swift instincts of the killer. Suddenly he changed
his hold, burying his fangs into the under part of
Oohoomisew’s body. They sank into three
inches of feathers. Swift as Baree had been,
Oohoomisew was equally swift to take advantage of
his opportunity. In an instant he had swooped
upward. There was a jerk, a rending of feathers
from flesh—­and Baree was alone on the field
of battle.

Baree had not killed, but he had conquered. His
first great day—­or night—­had
come. The world was filled with a new promise
for him, as vast as the night itself. And after
a moment he sat back on his haunches, sniffing the
air for his beaten enemy. Then, as if defying
the feathered monster to come back and fight to the
end, he pointed his sharp little muzzle up to the
stars and sent forth his first babyish wolf howl into
the night.

CHAPTER 6

Baree’s fight with Oohoomisew was good medicine
for him. It not only gave him great confidence
in himself, but it also cleared the fever of ugliness
from his blood. He no longer snapped and snarled
at things as he went on through the night.